The Art of Personal Diplomacy
by Beagle-san
Summary: In 1998, a scandal ridden American President receives a diplomatic visit from a prim and proper Princess of Jurai. Uh-oh...


Hi! In case you didn't know, and you probably do, Tenchi Muyo! is owned by AIC and Pioneer LDC. This is a non-profit fic. To whatever extent legally permissible, the writing and story are the intellectual property of the author, and may not be reprinted without permission.  
  
Trouble brewing:  
  
According to information which first appeared in the semi-legendary 101 Tenchi Facts/Secrets, and appears verbatim in the version of the Tenchi Encyclopedia which is available on the OVA DVD set, regarding the connection between Earth and Jurai, Earth is a subject planet of the Juraian Empire "Colonial Planet No.0315." Jurai, doesn't interfere, only watches, but "The top politicians of Earth secretly maintain contact with the Jurai, who watch but do not interfere.  
  
Let's see, Jurai's ranking active member of the royal family on Earth during the 1990s would have been Princess Aeka. America was easily the most powerful nation on Earth at the time, meaning that the top American politician would've been the President. And the President of the USA was....  
  
^_^;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;  
  
Oh no...  
  
*********************************************  
  
The Art of Personal Diplomacy  
  
By Beagle-san  
  
Snow drifted down on Washington D.C. with the serene certainty that all was right with the world. The snow, vintage 1998, couldn't be bothered with knowing that it fell onto a political landscape rocked by a scandal of a magnitude last seen in the 1970s. Falling was the only mission possessed by the snow, a mission it carried out in a non-partisan manner, wafting over the corporeal manifestations of all three branches of the Federal government of the United States of America: the Capitol, the Supreme Court, and the White House. The snow knew not, but the lone occupant of an oval shaped room in the White House gazed out at the most current snowfall of 1998.  
  
The sole occupant was a man with his hair styled in a manner used equally by televangelists, used car salesmen and politicians of the Southern variety. On the charts the government kept for delineating the order of succession, the man was known as National Command Authority. The man in the Oval Office sighed. It was a forlorn sigh, with a touch of wistfulness. Everything had been going so well, thought National Command Authority. The power was awesome, and as Henry Kissinger had said, power was the ultimate aphrodisiac. The man who took delight each time that reporters called him "Mr. President", brightened a bit from his gloom at this thought. Why, he'd had to beat the women off with a stick! Well, he *could* have beaten them off with a stick, if he'd wanted to discourage their attention. That he hadn't tried to discourage them, or to be more accurately, to discourage one particular woman, was now the name of his pain, and the reason that the Oval Office felt colder than the snow-covered Rose Garden.  
  
With a sigh, the President turned from the window and went to sit at his desk. Once comfortingly ensconced, he reached over and took a cigar out of the presidential humidor. Not for smoking, as an important visitor was due in the not too distant future, but for fond nostalgia. The man sighed. The cigar was expensive, exquisite even, the fragrant aroma escaping from the carefully rolled leaves of the expensive macanudo. But the cigar was missing something.  
  
Monica.  
  
The President sighed, with fond remembrance of his favorite personal humidor. But those days were over, never to return.  
  
At the buzz from the intercom, the man returned the cigar to the conventional humidor on his desk. As he expected, the secretary was buzzing him to inform him that she was leaving for the day and that the Director of the Secret Service was here to see the President.  
  
The President gazed at the man who entered his office, dressed in a conservative suit which couldn't conceal the bulging firearm carried in a shoulder-holster under the man's left arm, or the lapel microphone and earpiece which enabled the man charged with the protection of the leader of the free world to communicate with the rest of the White House's security detail. Six years of Secret Service protection had made the accouterments of the agent's profession blur into the background. What piqued the President's attention was the folder carried under the Director's arm.  
  
"Mr. President, I've just received the final briefing information from our expected visitor." The Director wore the air of a man who was uncomfortable, his unease and uncertainty out-of-place in his usually professional demeanor. But given the nature of the file he was carrying, it could only be expected. The file was sealed, bearing the highest security clearances in the government, granting access to only two individuals: the President, and the Director of the Secret Service. The file bore only one word:  
  
Jurai.  
  
The President ignored the discomfort of the man charged with his safety. The President understood the reason for the agent's unease: the expected visitor possessed technology from which no one on Earth could be protected. The President even knew that the final briefing information has arrived on the agent's desk not by courier or fax, but by teleportation, the same way that the unknown emissary would arrive.  
  
The President had been astonished on the day of his inauguration when his predecessor and the Secret Service Director had taken him aside to inform him of the secret of Jurai. Aliens, although human in appearance, they ruled a vast empire, which included Earth as a subject planet. The Juraians would consult with Earth's leaders, but wouldn't interfere in internal matters. It was the most closely held secret on Earth, and he had been thrilled to be in on The Big Secret.  
  
Because of this most secret of secrets, the White House had been cleared, to the greatest extent possible, of unnecessary personnel. The weekend snow had given an excellent excuse to send home everyone who could be removed from the grounds without suspicion. Unfortunately, the current scandal had caused an increase in the number of members of the press to be present on the grounds.  
  
After more than six years of being in bed with the media, the President had been unpleasantly surprised at what could happen when reporters actually performed investigative reporting. The good news was that it was unlikely that the members of the 4th Estate would get wind of the upcoming meeting with the Juraian emissary.  
  
The Secret Service agent unsealed the file, withdrew briefing documents for the President to review, and also took out a small, flat disc. As the President scanned through the report, the agent continued with his report.  
  
"The note which accompanied this most recent "delivery" from the Juraians contained this holo-disc as a means of positively identifying the ambassador," the Director told the President. Pressing an unobtrusive switch, the disc, made a low humming noise, shooting a beam of light 3 feet into the air.  
  
"The ambassador will be here in 30 minutes. We've been told the name of the Juraian," the Director said, as the beam sparked and solidified into a life-like image of the emissary. "Princess Aeka, first crown princess of Jurai."  
  
The President looked up from his report, transfixed by the image before him. Gone were thoughts of asking about advanced technological help to feed the poorer nations of the world. Banished were thoughts of asking for advanced medical information to ease the ills of the planet. Never mind the unlikelihood of any of those requests being granted; it was sometimes the job of a leader to ask for things which would not be granted. But thoughts of intergalactic assistance had vanished as fast as a campaign contribution at a White House tea.  
  
No, National Command Authority's mind was empty of everything other than the image of Princess Aeka, and three words:  
  
Alien.  
  
Space.  
  
Babe.  
  
The Director of the Secret Service watched with concealed dismay as the Commander-in-Chief's eyes glazed over with lust accompanied by the total banishment of a vital political survival mechanism known as restraint. It was a look the Director knew all too well, having seen it pop up, in more ways than one, on all too many inappropriate occasions over the past. But those other occasions had only endangered the dignity of the Office of the President. This time his charge was getting riled up over someone with the potential to visit devastation upon the Director's beloved country, something which caused the Secret Service chief to attempt to remind the President of the sheer power possessed by the expected visitor; and unknowingly make the situation much, much worse.  
  
"She's very powerful, Mr. President. As you can see from the report, she's capable of materializing small logs which can power a force field of remarkable..."  
  
At the word "logs" the President's dreamy expression awoke from pleasant thoughts of a certain world leader being made the love slave of alien princesses.  
  
"I believe you said she uses 'logs', if I heard you correctly," the President intently asked the Director. Despite a sense of unease, the head of the Secret Service was obligated to answer.  
  
"Yes, Mr. President. She can summon miniature logs, seemingly from out of thin air, to form a protective barrier which we believe is capable of withstanding nuclear blasts." The Director was pleased with himself for again emphasizing the power possessed by Princess Aeka. It was a shame he didn't realize that the President had heard everything up to the word 'logs', and not heard another word, a hungry smile spreading over the face of the man who was the leader of the Free World.  
  
The briefing continued for a few more minutes, the President now relying on an old political trick of seemingly paying attention while focusing his thoughts elsewhere. When the door shut, the President's eyes went back the word 'logs' which the Director had thoughtfully highlighted in the briefing summary, ignoring the remainder of what had been highlighted: words such as 'reserved', 'powerful', and 'dangerous'. The Presidential eyes drifted to the humidor. Then back to the report. The President settled back in his chair as an anticipatory smile came to life on is face. Yes, the President was most eager to "consult" with the alien princess.  
  
  
  
Princess Aeka, First Crown Princess of Jurai, sat on the comfortable sofa wearing a polite and attentive look on her face as she listened to the charming conversation from the President of the United States. It was the practiced look recognized the world over by politicians of all stripes, who would have been unsurprised to learn that the expression was more than worldwide, it was intergalactic. The one difference that any skilled politician would have noticed was the small but warm smile on the attractive girl's face. The cause of the smile was simple: this was Aeka's last diplomatic house call.  
  
When Aeka had agreed to take on the regularly scheduled round of consultations, she had done so knowing that it would take her away from the Masaki household. Still, it had appeased her father to know that his daughter was still taking an active role in Juraian affairs. What Aeka had not counted on was the amount of time that the diplomatic consultations would take her away from Tenchi, leaving him without her there to protect him from Ryoko. The consultations all had one common feature: the leader would always ask for information and support which Jurai would not provide, owing to Jurai's non-interference policy. So far, however, this American leader had not gone that route, preferring to turn up the charm on Aeka, something the Princess noted but was enjoying nonetheless as she inwardly counted the minutes until she could return to the house down the hill from the Masaki shrine.  
  
Aeka was aware of the problems this American President was in the midst of, but it never occurred to her that her demeanor could be so woefully misread.  
  
It was working, thought the Leader of the Free World. The charm was working. The alien babe was like putty in his hands. With visions of thongs and cigars dancing in his head, the President went for it.  
  
Oh, he's heard about the power logs and wants a demonstration, Aeka realized. With a mere thought the logs materialized around Aeka. It wasn't uncommon for an additional request of a demonstration of Juraian power to occur, even after she had teleported into the room in front of a world leader.  
  
Such requests were not uncommon. The next request was most uncommon.  
  
Aeka had been born the spitting image of her mother, the overly vivacious Misaki. Up until the age of four, Aeka had been like her mother in attitude and demeanor as well. But from that tender age, Aeka had done her best to shape herself into the most proper of ladies, emulating the woman that her fiancée Yosho had most admired, Lady Funaho. But one character trait she shared with her mother still remained, always lurking and ready to emerge from the placid depths of Aeka's polite and demure manner: her temper.  
  
Unfortunately, none of this information was contained in the briefing reports read by the man who had just proposed that Aeka perform an additional and unusually intimate demonstration with the miniature logs.  
  
The President watched with anticipation as his proposal sank into the girl's consciousness. Like so many other women before her, this alien babe had fallen prey to his charms... right?  
  
Later, much later, the American politician would wonder whether perhaps it was the low growling noise emanating from the girl's vocal chords that first alerted him that he had made an enormous miscalculation, or it might have been the fiery wrath that lit up in the crimson eyes of the alien princess. One thing was certain: he would never forget the words uttered by the Juraian diplomatic emissary. Aeka fumed, her voice starting in a low growl, increasing in volume with each word:  
  
"I."  
  
"Am."  
  
"Not."  
  
"A."  
  
"WOMAN."  
  
"OF..."  
  
It had been a quiet day in the White House press room. There had been no new developments in Monica-Gate, and the press room was unusually quiet, even for a weekend, a quiet which was shattered by a battle cry of rage, which although muffled by distance plus walls and doors long believed to be soundproof, that filtered into the ears of the media pool.  
  
"Moose laurels?" The Reuters reporter asked his colleagues for confirmation that he had heard correctly.  
  
"Nah," suggested the reporter for the AP, "'Spruce florals' is what I heard."  
  
"Not so," said the woman from NBC. "It was 'goose chorals' that I heard just now."  
  
Although some thought they'd heard 'dorals' and others thought they'd heard 'juice', all debate ended when a distinctly Presidential scream was heard by one and all, resulting in a mass stampede to the press secretary's office.  
  
  
  
The Masaki residence on an isolated lake in the Okayama Prefecture is usually a fairly quiet place to be on a morning, save for the occasional spate between two of the female residents of the dwelling. However, the peace of this winter morning of 1998 was interrupted by the sound of laughter. To be more specific, howls of laughter.  
  
The scene at the Masaki breakfast table was drastically different than the norm. Aeka sat holding her tea, taking the occasional sip from her cup, maintaining her dignity at all costs. There were three interstellar communication screens open in the dining room. One featured the always composed Lady Funaho; another featured a beaming Lady Misaki. The third featured the appalled and speechless visage of Emperor Azusa. Around the table could be seen the writhing feet of the dread pirate Ryoko. At present the demon girl's feet and legs were the only visible portion of the pirate, as the rest of Ryoko was lying on the ground laughing so hard it was almost painful. Next to Ryoko was the awed expression of wonder on Sasami's face. Mihoshi was tittering from giggles behind her hand, while Washu had given up hiding her laughter behind her hand which was now slapping her knee in rhythm with the scientist's laughter. Lastly, sat Tenchi; his look of appalled, yet wondering speechlessness mirrored that of Aeka's father, a fact which would have disturbed both men had they been cognizant enough to be aware of the duplication.  
  
"Wait, it's coming on again," Mihoshi called out, pausing in her giggles to point at the Earth television at the other end of the room. All laughter paused, as the news report came on.  
  
"In our top story, the President of the United States remains at Walter Reed Hospital, following surgery to remove splinters from the presidential posterior which were sustained when a chair collapsed in the Oval Office yesterday afternoon. The White House reports that the President is in stable condition and..."  
  
The rest of the report was drowned out as the pause in laughter ended with simultaneous sputters from Ryoko, Washu, Mihoshi and Lady Misaki.  
  
When the laughter had died down again enough for conversation to be possible, Lady Funaho finally was able to discuss matters with her step- daughter.  
  
"Well, I can certainly understand why you contacted us, Aeka. But I have to ask," said Funaho, "did you also zap him with the logs?"  
  
Aeka, drawing her dignity about her like a tattered veil, despite being a bit startled by the question, replied.  
  
"No. To be honest, the thought didn't occur to me."  
  
Upon hearing this, Lady Misaki clucked with loving disapproval. "Aw, my little Aeka-chan needs to work on her follow-through!"  
  
"Listen to your mother, dear," Funaho nodded, "she knows what she's talking about."  
  
The laughter took even longer to die down this time.  
  
With a glare towards the rolling Ryoko, Aeka sighed.  
  
"But I still haven not told you why I called," Aeka told her parents. "I need for you to send me a delivery."  
  
Emperor Azusa had finally composed himself to the point where he could speak to his deceptively placid daughter.  
  
"What do you need, Aeka," asked the Emperor. "Please send me a case of Old Juraian Wood Polish No. 7," Aeka asked her parents. "I need to re-varnish my logs."  
  
The brief pause following this request was the last quiet moment for that morning.  
  
****************************************  
  
This fic is based upon a number of "what if" scenarios which could conceivably have collided during 1998. Oh, and William Jefferson Clinton is the property of Senator Rodham of New York.  
  
^_^  
  
C & C can be sent to Beagle-san at beagle_san@hotmail.com 


End file.
